


Litany for a Watchman

by archea2



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Humor, Language Kink, Latin, M/M, Mycroft worships Greg, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Mycroft's car, in Mycroft's words, it comes alive just for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Litany for a Watchman

Even in the bleached hospital light, the sight of that long umbrella held up in recognition was like a torch. Lestrade waved back, both thumps up, hurrying forward from the other end. 

"He’s fine," he called out. "A mere scalp wound – they’re just done stitching him up. John’s with him."   
  
"I see." Mycroft Holmes’s gaze flickered to the speaker’s left cheek as he spoke. "And is our Health System in such dire straits that they couldn't spare you a stitch?"  
  
"Oh, that." Lestrade shrugged uneasily. "That’s nothing. Unlike Sherlock, I know how to duck a punch; yeah, even a knuckle-dustered one. For the love of Mike, take him off the violin and put him on a kickboxing program – I won’t always be here to nanny his fights!"   
  
"Canvassing for legwork, Greg?" Mycroft wrapped a hand under the shorter man’s elbow, steering him on a ninety-degree turnabout. "I’ll give it a thought. Right now, all I can think of is home, hot water for two and a shared brandy."  
  
"But aren’t you going to —"  
  
"Dear me, no. You can’t stitch a scalp without shaving it first, and if I know Sherlock at all, he’s already thrown a genius-sized fit, diagnosed the night sister with hemorroids —"  
  
"How _did_ you.... »   
  
"— and Doctor Watson is now petting his crowning glory better, or what’s left of it. As Nelson famously remarked, flight is to the wise what walking is to the gulls – a necessary inconvenience. Here’s the car, my love."  
  
Lestrade, while having serious doubts about the quote, felt too knackered to protest. Instead, he boarded the Croftmobile, as he'd come to call it, with a relieved grin. The Bruiser might have been the runt of the gang, but it spoke much for Moriarty’s hiring skills that it had taken Lestrade and John’s (and the night sister's) united efforts to enable Sherlock to remain his headstrong self. Until his next bee-line into the fray, that was. At least Lestrade had grown observant enough to spot his consultant jogging off to the left while they were taping out the new crime scene – but then, two years of regular interaction with John and Sherlock had done wonders to his inner rowdar.  
  
His musings were cut short by a furtive chuckle on his right.   
  
"Care to split the fun?"  
  
"Oh, just an errant thought. Do you know what Sherlock’s name stands for, Greg?"  
  
"Haven't the foggiest. Judging from tonight, I’d say the great daftie has a fair share of luck."  
  
Mycroft smiled. But then, Mycroft always smiled when Lestrade let out his inner punster, just as Lestrade never cringed at Mycroft’s quoting fad. What’s tit for him is tat for me, Lestrade thought fondly, and turned to face his mate.   
  
"It’s old Saxon for 'beautiful hair' – Sherlock’s chief vanity, for all his ascetic blab. I’m the very opposite of a fatalist, my love, but I tend to believe in names and fates -  _nomen omen_. My own name is rather devious – something to do with waterfalls and a small enclosed pasture. I’ve poured more oil than water in these troubled days, but I’m quite happy enough to do so from my, ah. Secluded little outlook. As for you..."  
  
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. Old dog, meet new trick. "Long as you don’t tell me Greg is short for Gregson..."  
  
"It’s not. It’s short for Gregorius." The name uncurled smoothly on Mycroft’s tongue, its final sibilant clear and soft. "Which is Latin for the watchful, the vigilant. Gre-go-ri-us. A beautiful name, one that fits you like a glove."  
  
Lestrade canted his head uneasily. "It sounds a bit, well. Grand. I mean, Latin..." He found himself floundering for words – sixteen again, the grammar school boy assigned for practical training and an early practical job.   
  
"Why, yes. Latin." They shuffled together, knees bumping, drawn by the need to reconnect after the long summer day and its alarming close. Arms touching, suits rustling; Lestrade gave in and bent his head to the comfort of fresh linen and Mycroft's firm, warm neck under the late hint of aftershave. He'd taken off his tie the moment they were seated.

"Latin is the tongue for you, Gregory Lestrade. Enduring, resilient, solid enough for your people to carve laws that kept savagery at bay centuries before my people chose to grab it and keep it all for themselves, a social talisman. Or so they taught me, my heart; but I knew better, once I’d met you. Let me... let me show you."  
  
A long-fingered hand dipped its way into Lestrade's limp collar, brushing the dent of his throat. He closed his eyes as the hand touched his neck, his cheek, the patch of blood he couldn't clean, not yet, because Mycroft would know it for his.   
  
Mycroft’s voice was rising in the car’s upholstered penumbra.   
  
_Nocte vigilans,_  
Die bellator.   
Longe divisi   
In eadem urbe,   
Relicti sumus. (1)   
  
The words came to life in the shell of his ear, spoken with none of the public school sheen he'd expected. Clear, yet hard-edged, brimming with a contained urgency; with every shred of fever left in the day, every tendril of energy retained by the speaker, to make them sing alert. It was almost scary, this odd recitation in Mycroft's lower tones; like a spell out of a witch's tale. But Lestrade knew better than to cower before it; had given up on fear for many months now, and never found cause to regret it.   
  
_Ianua domus meae,_  
_Ignis siti meae,_  
_Silentium meum,_  
_Pax mea_  
_Et cordis spiritus,_  
_Dilecte Gregorie._ (1)   
  
He didn’t get the words, but then he didn’t need to. It was enough that they were spoken for him, vowel after hard-edged vowel, a talisman opening up the most cryptic of all languages, though Lestrade had learnt to decipher it with his hands, and mouth, and breath, and solid confidence in Mycroft's all too furtive heart.

He raised his mouth to the speaker's lips, nipping the end of his name. "Amen," he smiled, and kissed Mycroft again, hard and unhurried, driving his point home.   
  
The car pulled to a halt.

"It’s been a long day's ride," Mycroft murmured. " _Eamus ad dormiendum, mi Gregorie."_  (2)   
  
"Gotcha," Lestrade replied, and stepped round the car himself to open the door on his lover’s side. 

  
  
(1) A watcher by night,   
A fighter by day.   
We may be far apart   
In the same city,   
Yet remain bonded.   
  
Door to my home,   
Fire to my thirst,   
My repose,   
My peace,  
Breath of my heart,   
Beloved Gregory.   
  
(2) Let’s go to bed, my Gregory.


End file.
